


Free-falling

by silkskin



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, if bendis/sony won’t give ganke the character development he deserves then im doing it myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkskin/pseuds/silkskin
Summary: Spider-man has always been a part of Ganke’s life, and that was before Miles Morales came tumbling into it, all lanky limbs and skittish smiles.





	Free-falling

**Author's Note:**

> im eternally pissed at hoco for stealing ganke's entire character and ruining his chance to be introduced with miles, and i’ve also been irked for a while that even in the comics we don’t really know much about ganke. so i took what crumbs we had, went nuts with them, and sort of. invented a new backstory/characterisation for spiderverse ganke??? yeah.
> 
> this is pre-relationship milesganke and a study of their friendship more than anything else, but it’s still tagged bc yeah. they’re in love no matter what universe

The new Spider-man is really cool.

Ganke doesn't know if he should feel guilty for thinking it. The city’s still mourning, still rebuilding itself after the shock of Peter Parker’s death. He wasn’t really prepared for how hard it hit him. It was like the whole of New York had been plunged into a shroud of grief, a heavy fog that seeped into his bones and numbed everything. Ganke had gone to the memorial, bought flowers for the grave and May’s house, and it didn't feel like nearly enough.

And then the earthquakes hit, and Fisk Tower had fallen, and now, days after all the chaos and destruction, Ganke thinks the city’s still learning how to breathe again.

Brooklyn Visions, so close to Fisk Tower, had been cleared after the final wave of earthquakes and glitches. Students were returned to their anxious parents for the rest of the week. The aftermath had been a hectic blur of clearing debris and building inspections; news articles about Banksy-like structures and updates on delayed traffic. Despite everything, people had come together to help out. Ganke and his mum had volunteered at the local F.E.A.S.T shelter, now overflowing with new residents.

One thing’s for sure: the city’s healing, little by little.

And it’s due not in small part to the figure in the skies Ganke’s watching as he walks to school, leaping and swinging through the air so nimbly it looks like a dance.

Ganke, ever the avid Spider-man fan, has his phone out and recording before he even stops walking. The early morning sun is just now peeking over the city skyline, dowsing everything in a golden glow. Spider-man doesn’t look like he's in a rush, and he loops up and down the street, somersaulting on cranes and running up buildings as Ganke watches, breathless.

The hero has barely taken a break since Fisk Tower, showing up at reconstruction sites all over the city to lend a helping hand. Ganke’s maybe a little obsessed with seeing the webs being used practically to hold scaffolding and pick up heavy debris; he wants so badly to ask Spider-man how he makes it, whether its the same as Peter Parker’s, if he’d ever consider offering the formula up for scientific research. Not to mention the new powers. He's pretty sure Peter Parker couldn't turn invisible or zap things with venom.

There's a small crowd gathering now under Spider-man’s feet, phones up, cheers ringing out. Ganke grins as he watches Spider-man soak up the attention, waving and practically posing for the cameras. People were surprisingly welcoming to the new Spider-man, as protective of Peter Parker as they might have been. There's a heavy weight to the mantle now, but there's no one more aware of that than the person wearing it.

Ganke remembers a news article that came out when the new Spider-man first made his appearance, one that calls him ‘the spark of hope this city needs’. And as he watches him soar through the air, movements full of a brilliant joy and striking fearlessness, Ganke’s inclined to agree.

Plus, he thinks, as he raises his phone higher for a better vantage point, the new red and black suit is awesome.

Spider-man streaks down, webs holding just in time as he skids just shy of the concrete and twists to high-five the nearest spectator in an effortless move. Ganke gawks. Spider-man waves a final goodbye, whooping as he swings into the air.

And then he gets hit by a drone.

Ganke winces. Ouch.

By the time Ganke finally gets to the dorm room, his roommate’s already inside.

“Morning, Miles,” Ganke greets, knocking gently and coming in, just in time to catch Miles hastily pulling his shirt down over a rather nasty bruise. Ganke stops short. “Oh, dude, what happened?”

Miles shrugs sheepishly. He’s sitting on the top of his bunk. “I, uh, fell over on the way here.”

Ganke raises his eyebrows disbelievingly. He feels like that's definitely a lie, but he doesn’t think he’s close enough to Miles to call it out yet. 

Dumping his stuff under the desk, Ganke leans back and splays himself over the freshly-washed sheets on his bunk. He watches Miles’ ankles dangle back and forth from the bunk above him, restraining the urge to poke them. Ganke hasn't seen much of his roommate in the two weeks they’ve been at school together, and that was before Miles had vanished for like two whole days during the earthquakes. His appraisal of Miles pretty much boils down to ‘cool, but kinda weird and secretive’. He _wants_ to be friends, though. School would suck if he couldn’t even get along with his roommate.

In the little while they have before class starts, Ganke spends the next minute trying to think of a conversation starter. He’s surprised when Miles beats him to it, jumping down from the bunk and to his bag.

“Hey… you know how I maybe, accidentally, tore your comic last week?” 

Ganke does remember, actually, when he walked into their room to find an extremely stressed out pigeon trapped inside, and half their stuff strewn out across the floor. Miles had apologised profusely, and then blamed the pigeon.

Miles tosses something to him. “Here,” he says, sheepishly, “I got you a new one.”

Ganke catches the brown package. There’s more than one issue in it.

Miles walks over and sits next to Ganke. “I felt bad, so I got some other comics too—but I don’t really read comics so I dunno if they’re good.” He shrugs. “I just picked what looked cool.”

Ganke gapes. Miles has good taste. Besides the one he’d torn, there’s the first issue of a Daredevil run he’s been meaning to read, the latest issue for The Ultimates—

—and the last issue of Spider-man, a tribute to Peter Parker’s death, with the exact variant cover he wanted: Spider-man’s swinging fantastically through the air, but the real focus of the cover is his shadow falling onto a crowd of New Yorkers, all of them pointing and waving with beaming grins and excited cheers. A tribute to the hope and love that New York's hero brought to its people; a legacy bigger than any hero alone.

“Holy crap, Miles, thank you.” Ganke doesn't know what to say. “You didn't have to do that.”

Miles shrugs. “It's nothin’.” He angles a finger at Ganke and grins. “But you gotta let me read ‘em too.”

Ganke grins back, nodding. “I actually saw the new Spider-man on the way to school. Look at this.” He pulls out his phone to show him, but Miles has gone suddenly still.

“What, um, do you think about him? The new Spider-man?” Miles asks, his faux-casual tone given away when he can’t quite look Ganke in the eyes, fingers itching at his jeans. 

Ganke looks at Miles carefully. “I think he's super cool,” he says, more defiantly than he’d intended.

But Miles perks up. “You think so? You don’t think he’s like, disrespecting Peter—uh, the old Spider-man?”

“I think,” Ganke says, mulling it over, “that he’s doing what the old Spider-man would’ve wanted, you know? He’s protecting the city. Making a difference.”

“Oh.” Miles says, almost with surprise. Ganke can’t quite tell, but he thinks Miles is pleased. 

Ganke smiles wide, bringing his phone up again. “Plus, have you seen this guy swing?” He waves it in Miles’ face. “It’s incredible. And he’s even younger than Peter Parker!”

Miles lets out a giggle, brightening. “Okay, okay, show me the video.”

Ganke, triumphant, clicks play and lets the sound of the city and crowd fill the room. He watches Miles as the video rolls, and there's an indecipherable expression on the boy’s face as he takes in the footage. There’s a vitality in Miles’ movements, a kinetic motion that’s carved into everything from the quirked smile on his face to the tapping of his foot against the bunk. Ganke barely knows a thing about Miles, but he feels drawn in all the same, pulled by whatever energy hums under his skin.

Without looking up, Miles says, “What?”

Ganke looks away and back to the video quickly. “Huh?”

The corner of Miles’ mouth curls up. “You were starin’ at me.”

“Was not,” Ganke lies.

“Sure,” Miles says, obviously unconvinced.

Ganke flounders a bit. “Well—I mean, what do _you_ think about the new Spider-man?”

Miles shrugs, eyes carefully fixed on the video in front of him. “He’s… cool, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Miles shrugs again.

“Stop doing that.” At Miles’ confused look, Ganke clarifies, “The shrugging.”

Miles almost shrugs again, which sends them both into a fit of laughter.

Ganke squints at Miles, still smiling. “Do you have something against Spider-man?”

“What? Noooo!” Miles says, dragging out the syllable. “I just, don’t know much about Spider-man—like, who’s Spider-man? I dunno!” He punctuates his point by throwing his hands up exaggeratedly. 

Wow. Miles is even worse at lying than him. But as Ganke opens his mouth to interrogate him, he's interrupted by the sound of the bell ringing, echoing through the open window from the main building.

“Crap,” Miles says. Ganke frantically checks the time on his phone; it’s not encouraging. He runs for his bag, quickly dumping all the textbooks he doesn’t need onto the floor.

“This is the first time I show up to class in like a week and I’m gonna be late,” Miles mutters, throwing his things in the air. “Mr Chamberlain’s gonna kill me.”

Ganke snorts. “You have history first? That sucks, dude.”

Miles pauses at the door. “Seriously, sorry for going all AWOL last week. Stuff at home’s been… hard.” He fidgets with the straps of his backpack.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Ganke says, softening. He remembers something, and before he chickens out he says, “I, um, heard about your uncle. I… I lost my dad a couple years ago, so if you ever need to talk about it...” He shrugs. 

Miles is looking at him, expression carefully controlled. He nods. “Oh,” he breathes, “thanks.” 

Ganke gives him a tentative smile, and then shakes himself. “Anyway!” he says, un-pausing and rushing to stuff the rest of his things into his bag, “We should run.”

Miles nods furiously, and the both of them sprint down the hallway, door slamming shut behind them.

Ganke is nine years old when it happens.

The scene is always blurry, when he tries to remember. Like fragments in a mosaic. There are some moments of flat colour and pure feeling, made of things that he can't quite recall. And then there are some moments so heavy that they drag him down like tar, framed in truth by the ache that never leaves his chest.

This is what Ganke remembers clearly:

  1. There’s a Spider-man show on TV when the call comes.
  2. Mom is fidgeting on the couch next to him.
  3. Dad’s late.
  4. The sound of the phone ringing is sharp and sudden, like broken glass.
  5. Ganke thinks Electro’s outfit is ugly.
  6. Mom’s voice is panicked.
  7. The TV isn’t loud enough to drown her out.
  8. She’s trembling.
  9. Ganke can’t seem to tear his eyes off the screen.

This is what Ganke can’t remember:

  1. How they get to the hospital.
  2. How long they sit there in the emergency room, waiting, until the doctor finally comes through the doors and breaks the news.
  3. How the inside of Ganke's head manages to feel like the hospital’s fluorescent lights, buzzing and naked and numb.
  4. How they get home.
  5. How long it takes the two of them, collapsing into each other under the weight of the emptiness, to fall asleep.

This is what Ganke knows, from what people have told him:

  1. Dad is dead.
  2. He was in a car accident on the corner of 28th and 5th.
  3. If the doctors had reached him just a little earlier, he might not have died.
  4. Everyone is sorry for their loss.
  5. He and Mom only have each other now.

And this, this, is what Ganke knows from experience alone: 

  1. There’s a pain in his chest, an unceasing heaviness that fills his lungs like drowning, and it won’t ever go away.

Miles Morales is a mystery, Ganke thinks.

After that conversation in the dorm, things feel like they’re clicking into place. School picks back up, the dust settles, and Ganke and Miles get along well. Really well. He’s kind of terrified that he can call Miles his closest friend, despite only really knowing him for like, a week. And that’s even with all the secrets.

Miles still sneaks out at weird hours, even if it’s not for nearly as long as in that first week, coming back late and exhausted. He has nightmares, too, nightmares that leave him gasping and shuddering in the bunk above, nightmares that Ganke’s forced to wake him up from, both of them shaking and panicked in the darkness. They don't speak, then, leaning into each other, except for Miles’ whispered apologies. Ganke stops him before he finishes them. He knows what nightmares are like. Knows how to recognise grief when he sees it.

(“Does the pain ever go away?” A whisper, hardly distinguishable from the shaky breaths Miles takes.

“No,” Ganke says, and he can feel it now, a weight sinking into his heart like an anchor. His fingers tighten around the edge of Miles’ bunk. “But it gets easier.”)

Miles doesn’t need to ask Ganke to keep it a secret; he was going to do that anyway. But he does wish Miles would just tell him what’s going on. He feels like the strain of having to keep so many secrets is draining Miles more than anything else.

“Mr. Chamberlain hates me, man.” They’re walking from the cafeteria to one of the tables outside, and Miles is in one of these moods, shoulders heavy like he’s dragging the weight of the world behind him.

“Mr. Chamberlain hates everyone,” Ganke says.

“Okay, but he also hates me, specifically.”

Ganke gives him a pointed look, sitting down. “You _do_ show up late to class everyday and then skip the rest by running off to the bathroom and not coming back,” he says, not unkindly. 

Miles, sitting opposite, slouches into the table. Ganke pats his arm absent-mindedly. “Now that we’re ignoring the elephant in the room where you don't tell me about all these secret things you do—” and Ganke knows Miles is gloomy when he doesn’t even try to protest, “—have you ever thought about Spider-man’s new powers?”

Miles turns to him then, looking somewhat like a deer in the headlights. “Huh?”

“I have a _theory_,” Ganke says, pointing his fork at Miles and munching on his food.

Ganke doesn't know why Miles looks so worried. “…You do?”

“Yeah. The—the invisibility and the venom strike? I mean, I’m pretty sure the invisibility’s a spider thing.”

Miles seems to relax a little. “Well, duh.”

“No, listen, I researched it, and apparently crab spiders change colours to camouflage in their habitat,” Ganke says, “but the _really_ cool thing is the venom strike.”

Ah, and there's the interest on Miles’ face. Miles always pretends he doesn't care about Spider-man, but always cheers up when Ganke talks about him. Which is good, because Ganke talks about Spider-man a _lot_. 

“Like, Spider-man keeps calling it a ‘venom strike’,” Ganke continues, fingering the air-quotes, “but I don't think it’s got to do with venom at all. I saw a video of it, and it reminded me of that, that thing we’re studying in biology?” 

Ganke pauses for dramatic effect. Miles raises his eyebrows. “I reckon Spider-man’s actually controlling and releasing his own bio-electric energy.”

“Huh,” Miles says, after a second, like he’s really thinking about it. And then, expression morphing into a smirk, “You’re such a nerd.”

Ganke shoves him from across the table. “Takes one to know one.”

Miles laughs, and Ganke cheers internally. Mission accomplished.

“And,” Ganke continues, “it makes sense, because people reckon being able to control bio-electricity could help restore the body, treat cancer and stuff like that. Which would explain why Spider-man can heal so fast.”

“Not as fast as you'd think,” Miles mutters cryptically under his breath, then starts thinking aloud, “So why can’t Spider-man make webs?”

Ganke shrugs. “Could just be the specific spider he was bitten with?”

“Don’t all spiders produce silk, or somethin’? I remember reading they have silk glands in like, their butts.”

Ganke cracks up. “You think Spider-man poops silk?”

“Gross, man!” Miles laughs, and Ganke dodges his teasing punch. 

But Miles’ sleeves ride up when he leans forward, uniform already too small after Miles’ growth spurt in his first week, and Ganke abruptly stops laughing when he sees the bruised gash on his forearm. It’s swollen and colourful in a way that makes it look way too recent.

“Dude, your arm!”

Miles sobers instantly, pulling away and yanking his sleeve back down. There’s a cornered look on his face. “Uh, what arm?”

“_What arm?_” Ganke grabs Miles’ hand and pulls the sleeve back up. “This arm! What happened?”

“Nothing!”

Ganke stares. 

“I just, just, walked into a pole. Or somethin’.” He laughs awkwardly.

“Or something?”

“I’m clumsy.”

Ganke’s not an idiot. He narrows his eyes, tightens his grip on Miles’ hand. Lowers his voice, grim. “Who did this to you?”

“What? Nobody!”

“Are you in, like, a fight club? Is that where you’re always disappearing to?”

“No!”

Ganke pauses. Says a little gentler, “Is it from home?”

“_No_, man!” Miles looks absolutely mortified. At Ganke’s skeptical look, he adds, “Seriously!”

Ganke frowns, and then takes a breath. He nods slowly and sagely. “I get it, I get it. You don’t have to tell me, but just know that I’ll always be there if you want to talk about it, like, bro to bro, heart to heart, and that it’s nothing to be ashamed about—”

“Oh my _god_, Ganke, it’s not what you think!” Miles lets out a hysterical laugh. He’s blushing now, ears a bright red.

“Whatever, I’m just saying—!”

“And I appreciate it, man, but it’s fine.” Miles tilts his head and looks at Ganke sincerely. “Promise.”

Ganke doesn’t believe him, but he sighs. “Okay. Just make sure you don’t, like, get it infected or anything.”

“Yeah.” A beat, and then, “You can uh, let go of my hand now.”

It’s Ganke’s turn to blush. “Right! Right.”

He lets go, but the table is plunged into a sudden awkwardness. Ganke pretends he doesn’t notice, biting his lip and picking slowly at his food.

After what feels like a millennia, Miles starts again, self-conscious, “Sooooo. What do you think of that new hipster coffee shop, huh? Foam Party? Pfft, dumb, right—”

Ganke’s almost relieved when the street in front of them explodes.

Miles is the one to vault over the table and yank him down, just before the dusted concrete rains down and car alarms start blaring nearby. Ganke can hear the sound of glass shattering and panicked screams, and he peeks over the table to see people running away from the fancy jewellery shop across the road. The windows are smashed, and the cars parked at the kerb are overturned and wrecked.

There’s a tall woman in a long white coat standing in front of the shop, calm amidst the chaos. 

She lifts her arm—a ring of light sparks in front of her—and Ganke covers his ears and cowers as another deafening explosion shakes the ground.

Next to him, Ganke hears Miles mutter furiously, “Seriously? It’s the middle of the day,” before he grabs Ganke’s arm and their backpacks and makes a run for it back to the school building. Ganke adjusts his glasses and stares back at the shop; the lady’s walking into it now. He looks around, about to ask Miles if he’s okay, only to find him missing from his side.

“Miles!” Ganke shouts into the gathering crowd. Students are running from both inside and out to watch the unfolding mayhem, phones already out and recording.

“What the hell happened?”

“Someone call 911!”

Ganke shoves his schoolbag back on and pushes through the crowd, moving to the high ground up front to get a better vantage point.

There’s a shout, and suddenly people are pointing into the air. It takes Ganke a moment to spot the dark figure, swinging into the fray from behind the school to land on the streetlight in front of the shop. The new Spider-man. Ganke’s heart leaps into his throat, mouth falling open slightly in awe. Criminals were popping up left and right in the gap left behind by Peter’s death, but the silhouette in front of him is solid proof that New York doesn’t fall easy.

“Hey lady, robbing a store in broad daylight probably isn’t your best plan.” 

Spider-man's at a crouch, poised like a snake about to strike. All thoughts about finding Miles has evaporated from Ganke’s brain. What are the chances of getting to watch a showdown this close?

The lady grits her teeth, before she rolls her eyes and says, hard and polished like stone, “It’s Bombshell.” 

She points her arm towards Spider-man, who leaps clear as another explosion detonates around the streetlight, the sound of screeching metal filling the air. 

“Hey!” Spider-man yells, landing on the pavement in front of the shop, blocking Bombshell from its entrance. “I’m swinging here!”

“Whatever, kid. Get out of the @#$%$@# way before you get hurt.”

“Language,” singsongs Spider-man, and he shoots out a glob of web that snaps onto Bombshell’s mouth.

As she wrestles to get it off, Spider-man jumps forward, aiming a punch while she’s distracted. Bombshell, though, dodges fast, and aims an explosion a Spider-man's feet; the ring of light flashes around her hands again and sends concrete and dusted pavement flying into the air. 

Ganke gasps, but Spider-man’s vanished, nowhere to be seen. Bombshell flicks her head from side to side, listening, and then lifts her hand up and shoots explosions like pinpoint needles, disrupting the ground around her and sending dust into the air. There’s a grunt as Spider-man trips forward over one and reappears, but he lands swiftly on his hands and drives the momentum into a hasty kick. Bombshell, jumps clear in one fluid motion, her white coat trailing behind.

As the pair of them dart around each other and explosions erupt, Ganke finds it harder to see the fight. He ducks behind the nearby building, away from the open ground. It’s quickly becoming mayhem. He can see the teachers chasing the rest of the students inside, and moves to follow—but the ground in front of him bursts open, sending a red fire hydrant up into the air. Never mind.

Ganke doubles back, shielding himself behind some pot plants, and resigns himself to looking through the leaves at the ongoing fight. 

It’s not that much of a loss, he thinks, as he watches Spider-man cartwheel through the air, all sharp movements and swift strikes. He moves like he’s running on instinct, graceful on his feet and lightning fast, with a skittering physicality that has Ganke entranced. Especially when Spider-man starts flickering in and out of sight, shimmering like a mirage, dodging and looping between attacks. It’s becoming apparent that Bombshell, fierce and reckless, is being beaten down less by Spider-man’s blows and more by the kickback of her own explosions.

“#@$@%#!!” In her frustration, she fires a furious explosion directly above her into the air, and Ganke cowers as the blowback smashes nearby windows and sends wind rushing past. Spider-man instantly takes the opportunity to shoot forward while she’s exhausted, effortlessly leaping over an uprooted postbox sent his way. Ganke lets out an awed gasp as he twists in the air and gently taps Bombshell’s neck with two fingers. Blue sparks snap to life around his hand, connecting and lancing down Bombshell’s body as she shrieks, collapsing to the ground. Ganke feels like his eyes have physically turned into hearts.

Spider-man’s vanished again.

Recovering, Bombshell wipes at her mouth and spits onto the ground. She pauses, looking for Spider-man in vain, and then she releases a flurry of haphazard explosions in a reckless final move that has Ganke throwing himself to the ground. Some echo harmlessly into the air; others hit the ground, trees, windows, shuddering up buildings and destroying tarmac. 

But Spider-man flickers into sight just behind her—a sharp punch to her jaw, and she’s knocked out cold.

Ganke opens his mouth to cheer. 

Something rumbles loudly above, cutting him short.

The realisation that the building Ganke’s standing under is crumbling hits him far too late. He looks up to see brick avalanching down, and flings his hands up on instinct. Dust falls into his eyes. Heavy brick crashes down around him, loud as thunder.

Ganke yelps as something latches onto him, pulling him spinning backwards. He collides into a body behind him and miraculously clears the rest of the debris, coughing loudly.

Spider-man’s close, pressed up right against him as he pulls them both behind a building. 

“@#%$! Ga--Are you okay?” There’s panic and fear in the voice, and hands are coming up to touch at Ganke’s throbbing head, worried fingers tentative against his skin. Somewhere buried under the layers of shock and pain Ganke wonders if Spider-man’s this touchy with everyone he saves. 

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve taken the fight away from school—” Is his voice familiar, or is it just Ganke’s ears ringing? Spider-man’s hands are still gentle on his face, wiping away the blood from the cut. This close, he’s even shorter than Ganke thought.

“Spider-man! I’m okay!” Ganke says, determinedly. He thinks he is, anyway. Things are spinning a little, but if he rests, he’ll probably be fine. Maybe. His pushes up his glasses. “But—If you, uh, want to make me feel better, can you give me an autograph!?”

Spider-man stares. Ganke stares back. He’s nothing if not an opportunist. 

Spider-man laughs suddenly, before he drops his head onto Ganke’s shoulder in what seems to be relief. 

“Unbelievable.” The hero takes a shaky breath, before clearing his throat suddenly and stepping away from him. Ganke finds he misses the contact. 

Spider-man clears his throat, and Ganke swears his voice gets strangely deeper. “Of course. Anything for a fan.” Spiderman gives him a corny thumbs up, before looking anxiously at the arriving police. “But, uh, make it quick.”

Ganke grins lopsidedly, and takes out a marker from his bag. Spider-man takes it quickly, and after a little deliberation about where to sign, he spins Ganke round and scribbles something on his backpack. 

He passes the marker back to Ganke, and gets ready to run off. He looks back. “You should probably, uh, visit the nurse or something about the bleeding. I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, still grinning, still staring at Spider-man in awe. After Spider-man gives him an awkward wave and swings back into the open street, Ganke whips the backpack off of him and stares. The autograph is stylistically messy, sharp angles and bleeding ink forming the letters of ‘SPIDER-MAN’ stark across the fabric. It’s frenetic and striking and Ganke just might be in love with it.

God, he needs to tell Miles.

Ganke runs towards the school’s side entrance, planning to avoid the teachers already running up in concern, but then stars burst in his eyes. He blinks slowly until it clears. Okay, yeah. Maybe he actually will visit the nurse.

Ganke is nine years old, and he knows Mom is worried.

He spends all his time shut in his room these days, brain running a million times a minute as he overthinks almost every facet of the accident. Because that’s what it was, in the end. An accident. Dad’s death wasn’t noteworthy or dramatic; real death isn’t that theatrical. Ganke lives in a world of superheroes and drama and action, and a drunk driver is all it takes. He never even got to see the crash. All he knows is that Dad was here one second, and gone the next. No news headline. No stage curtains. No fanfare.

Ganke lies on his bed and screams into his pillow until he feels like he’s choking.

He barely sleeps, barely even cries. He’s just empty. Ganke thinks that if he can keep his mind busy enough, if he can stave off the heaviness already settling into his bones by keeping occupied, he’ll be okay. He thinks about how Dad could’ve survived if he had reached help either, and teaches himself advanced first-aid in two weeks. Thinks about car safety and regulations, and spends the next two months researching automobile engineering and robotics to write a thesis. Days move slowly and nights are threatening in their vacantness, so Ganke stays up late reading anything and everything he can get his hands on, torch under the blankets, rubbing at his eyes until exhaustion forces him asleep. A month later, Ganke’s mom brings him to the optometrist to get glasses.

He goes to school, and people whisper about him to their friends, and he comes home and Mom talks to him as if he’s stupid and doesn’t know what’s happening. Ganke knows. He knows what grief is, he knows everyone’s just worried, knows that he’s not so much staving off the heaviness as he is becoming it, all the space in his body being filled up by it until he can barely move but—but he can’t stop.

It’s like a black hole, a gravitational pull dragging him in, time slowing down and circling, not so much moving forward as it is compressing into infinite moments he can never seem to fill. The last six months have been orbiting around this accident, this singularity, like every hobby he’s taken up since feels like a thin veil away from death. Like he’s constantly skirting around the edges.

Ganke’s been saved by Spider-man once before.

There’s a man, a villain, standing at the top of Fisk tower, broadcasted on the news in Times Square. Mum’s holding his hand tight, but all Ganke can think is that the man looks like his head is on fire, bright and blue and burning, and that he’s an idiot if he thinks he can beat Spider-man. 

He remembers blue fog pouring into the city, rolling past the buildings like water. No, thicker and slower than that. Like oil. He can hear the screams long before the fog reaches him. 

He wants to say he can’t remember what happens next. But that’s not entirely true.

Ganke opens his eyes. 

He’s standing in a white room.

It’s starkly lit, walls so loud and bright it hurts his eyes.

The TV in front of him has a Spider-man show on, loud and garish. The gaudy red of Spider-man’s suit seems like the only colour in the room. It’s familiar, but Ganke can’t make out the words over his mom yelling at him. It’s like there’s fuzz in his ears.

He turns to her and tells her to stop yelling, because he’s trying to hear the TV. She looks like she’s made out of static. She’s asking him where his dad is, because he’s running late, and there’s a phone in her hand as she looks at Ganke, and Ganke doesn’t know, but Dad’s been late before and he just wants to watch Spider-man swing around New York on TV. Spider-man’s fighting Electro this time, and Ganke watches as the villain shoots sickly yellow flashes across the screen. 

“Ganke, Ganke, listen to me! Ganke, where’s your father?” She keeps switching in between Korean and English, and it’s making Ganke’s head spin. 

“I don’t know,” Ganke says, but she acts like she doesn’t hear him. Electro’s lightning looks real enough to blast out of the screen and into the room, and Ganke can feel it, the buzzing numbness that makes his movements slow and his edges burn.

“Where’s your father, Ganke? Ganke, I’m talking to you, look, look, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Ganke closes his eyes and shakes his head. There’s fuzz in his ears. Everything around him is so loud, the yelling and the dull grey walls and the bright lights and the TV and the white noise bouncing around all of it. Something’s wrong, he thinks. Something’s wrong. Ganke just clutches at his head as his mom’s yells cascade over him and the TV won’t stop blaring and the world gets louder and louder and louder and he feels like he’s drowning and drowning and drowning—

Ganke opens his eyes. 

He’s standing in a white room.

The gaudy red of Spider-man’s suit on TV is the only colour he can see in the harsh lighting. It’s familiar, but Ganke can’t make out the words over his mom yelling at him. It’s like there’s fuzz in his ears.

He wants to turn to her to tell her to stop yelling, because he’s trying to hear the TV. Ganke thinks she looks like she’s made out of dust. She’s asking him where his dad is, because he’s not answering his phone, and there’s a phone at her ear but she’s looking at him, and Ganke tries to tell her that he doesn’t know; his phone’s probably just switched off. He just wants to watch Spider-man swing around New York on TV. He’s fighting Sandman this time, and Ganke watches as the villain summons a sandstorm across the screen, curling around Spider-man and flooding the screen with a burning yellow yellow yellow.

“Ganke, Ganke, listen to me! Ganke, where’s Dad?” She keeps switching in between Korean and English, and it’s making Ganke’s head spin. 

“I don’t know,” Ganke says, but she acts like she doesn’t hear him. The sandstorm on screen is too big, Ganke thinks, because he can hear the violent rush of sand as if it’s right next to his ear, as if the dust is whipping at his skin and spilling into his head and overwhelming him.

“Where’s your father, Ganke? Ganke, I’m, I’m, I’m talking to you, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Ganke closes his eyes and shakes his head. He doesn’t know where Dad is, doesn’t know anything. Everything around him is so loud, the yelling and the dull grey walls and the bright hospital lights and the TV and the static bouncing around all of it. Something’s wrong, he thinks. Something’s wrong. Ganke just clutches at his head as the world gets louder and he feels like he’s drowning in unsaturated walls and empty bedrooms and weary hands and endless time and the constant throbbing in his head of wrong wrong wrong wrong— 

Ganke opens his eyes. 

He’s standing in a white room.

The gaudy red of Spider-man’s suit on TV is the only colour he can see. It’s familiar, but Ganke can’t make out the words over his mom yelling at him. It’s like there’s fuzz in his ears.

He wants to turn to her to tell her to stop yelling, because he’s trying to hear the TV. Ganke thinks she looks like she’s made out of pixels. She’s asking him where his dad is, because the person on the phone isn’t dad, isn’t anyone she knows, and Ganke has no idea because he just wants to watch Spider-man swing around New York on TV. He’s fighting Venom this time, and Ganke watches as the alien warps, melting into a thick fluid that pulls at Spider-man, drags him down like quicksand and smothers him like it’s trying to snuff out the red flame of his costume.

“Ganke, Ganke, listen to me! Ganke, where’s your, your, your father?” She keeps switching in between Korean and English, and it’s making Ganke’s head spin. 

“He’s running late,” Ganke says, but she acts like she doesn’t hear him. Ganke doesn’t like the way Venom moves, he thinks, because he can already feel himself sinking into the black ink just by looking at him, drowning and suffocating in the force of it as it drags him down and fills up his vision with an endless darkness.

“Oh my god, Where’s your father, Ganke? Ganke, I’m talking to you, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

He can’t move. 

“Ganke, what’s wrong with you? Do you know where your father is? Tell me where your father is, where is he, Ganke—”

“Dad’s dead!” Ganke yells, except he doesn’t realise he’s yelling until after the words have left his mouth. The truth of it hits him suddenly; he knows this. He’s always known this. His mom’s finally quiet, and then she’s gone, leaving the words to rebound against the scorched white walls until it’s all Ganke can hear. 

“He’s dead,” he says, closing his eyes. His hands move to clutch at his own sides, like he’s trying to protect him from the hollowness threatening to eat him up from the inside out. There’s fuzz in his ears and the hospital lights are so loud and he’s sinking and sinking and sinking with the heaviness, like a balloon in his lungs, a pressure against his throat and eyes and chest and he _can’t move_—

Ganke opens his eyes.

He’s standing in a white room.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been on the ground breathing static when the voice comes piercing through. “No, no! Don’t let anyone into the vicinity, not until the fog clears. I’ll bring everyone I can to the hospital.”

There are hands at his sides, a voice telling him to breathe, and it’s only once he’s in the air that he realises someone’s carrying him. Not just anyone: Spider-man’s carrying him. Ganke doesn’t care; can’t seem to feel anything besides the needles in his head. He just holds on as tight as he can.

When Spider-man finally touches down lightly in front of the building, Ganke doesn’t let go. He can’t. Ganke hates hospitals. Hates the smell of antiseptic and cold floors and waiting. Hates that he doesn’t know if the fear this time is from the fog in his head or in his heart.

It takes Spider-man’s repeated voice saying, “Hey, breathe, just breathe, you’re okay,” to realise he’s hyperventilating, hands clinging so tightly to the costume that it must be hurting him. “Breathe with me. In, two, three, four… Out, two, three, four.” 

Ganke listens as Spider-man repeats it, listens until he can bring himself to loosen his grip.There’s a throbbing in his head that seems to make the whole ground warp underneath him. He feels awful. Feels even worse when he realises he’s been wasting Spider-man’s time.

He can’t help it, though. “Can’t… go in there,” he says, thinking of the hospital, still refusing to let go of Spider-man’s hand.

Spider-man lays a hand gently against Ganke’s head. “Hey, I’ve lost someone too, you know.”

Ganke jumps, but Spider-man stays steady.

“You were mumbling on the way here.” Spider-man kneels down to look him in the eyes and shakes his head. “Can’t even imagine what you were seeing down there.”

Ganke looks away. He feels numb, even as his head is still hammering like it’s about to explode. 

“…I know it wasn’t real,” he mumbles. If he proves to Spider-man that he’s clever enough to be alright, he might not have to go inside. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Yeah, you’re a smart kid, I can tell,” Spider-man says, hand squeezing Ganke’s shoulder. “But it’s okay if it still hurts, you know?”

And something in Ganke breaks then, and he doesn’t know why, and maybe it’s because Spider-man’s the one saying it, but it’s like everything in the past six months catches up to him all at once, like the pressure built against the balloon in his lungs finally popped. Ganke’s nodding, and then he’s crying, and he can’t stop, and Spider-man’s worried he’s made it worse before Ganke goes up and hugs him as tightly as he can, snivelling into spandex and letting Spider-man lift him up and hug him back and whisper reassurances that don’t feel as empty as they usually do when they come from other people. 

He cries all the way as Spider-man carries him into the emergency room, as he’s given a mask to breathe oxygen through, as Spider-man puts him into the couch and ruffles his hair and tells him he’ll be okay and Ganke cry-laughs at the wink he’s given before he leaves. He’s still sobbing when his mom rushes in to scoop him into his arms, and it’s gross and there’s snot and tears everywhere and everyone’s giving him worried looks, but—but he can’t stop. Ganke just buries his head into his mom’s shoulder and lets out ugly wails until the weight in his chest keeps expanding and expanding outwards and leaking out of his eyes and nose and mouth until it’s all he can see and hear and taste.

By the time his eyes are dry, he feels the lightest he has in months.

Mom walks him back home, and that’s when Ganke sees it. There’s an announcement on a bookstore they’re passing. 

** _Ultimate Spider-man #1 Selling Now!_ **

And Ganke tugs at his mom’s pants until she buys it for him.

It’s Saturday night, or rather, Sunday morning, and Ganke’s working on his thesis late again. At least, he’s trying to.

It’s quiet. His clock flashes a neon 02:42, digits glowing a radioactive green. It’s the only thing lighting up the room this late. Miles still hasn’t come back from who knows what, and Ganke’s long since given up pretending he wasn’t worried about him. There’s the faint sound of sirens outside like ripples through water; something’s always happening somewhere in New York, and usually Ganke doesn’t pay it any mind, but. Miles has never been this late. There’s a gnawing fear at the base of Ganke’s spine, keeping him from sleeping. It’s bone-achingly familiar in a way Ganke hates, echoing in the silence around the room.

He’s taken to tapping a rhythm against his leg, a beat he’s had in mind for a while, when a shadow passes by and makes the moonlight falling on the floor wink. Ganke freezes. There’s a knocking at the window.

He lifts himself from his chair slowly. There’s a figure silhouetted against the night. It takes Ganke’s eyes a moment to make out the spray-painted red, the tattered costume, and then he’s scrambling forward to get the window open.

Spider-man tumbles into the room. 

He’s bleeding. Ganke’s in shock, but some part of him moves on autopilot, switching on the light and leaning down to help Spider-man sit up against the lower bunk of the bed.

“Spider-man?” It takes him more than a few seconds to get the words out of his mouth. “Oh my god, what are you doing here? Are you okay? I mean, of course you’re not okay, you’re _bleeding—_“

“The Rhino. Got—got slammed into a wall,” Spider-man coughs out, words stilted.

“Oh god, what do I do?” Ganke’s hands scramble to hold Spider-man’s leg, to stem the bleeding that feels horribly warm against his fingers. Spider-man’s in his _room._ He’s freaking out, and way, way out of his depth. He kinda thinks Spider-man might be too. Ganke’s hit by how much smaller he looks when he’s here, the larger-than-life costume set bare against the messy intimacy of the dorm room.

“I’m sorry,” Spider-man says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that makes Ganke’s heart leap into his throat with worry.

“What? No, no, it’s fine, we just need to figure this out—”

And then Spider-man takes his mask off.

Ganke’s brain short-circuits, breath stilling in his throat as the world spirals down into this one moment. 

“Miles!?”

Spider-man—_Miles—_coughs weakly. “Ganke. I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” 

He can’t stop staring. There’s a part of his brain that clicks as everything falls into place, the disappearing, the nightmares, the injuries, the lying, and it makes Ganke want to scream as his total obliviousness slaps him in the face. 

But then the rest of his brain is flooded with horror at the scene before him. Fear clamps around his chest as the situation plummets from being worried about Spider-man dying in his room to being worried about his _best friend_ dying in his room. Miles is bleeding out beneath his fingers, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Miles reaches a hand up and tugs at Ganke’s arm. “Ganke?” He looks miserable with guilt. “I was going to tell you, promise.”

Ganke grabs Miles’ hand and squeezes back, hard. Come on Ganke, focus. He tries to steady himself to say something reassuring, makes himself focus on just breathing, letting the air in and out of his lungs. Miles needs him. Say something encouraging.

“What the @#$@%,” he blurts.

Miles groans.

Ganke’s brain is still on a repeating loop of all the swear words he knows in both of his languages. He tightens his grip on Miles’ hand. “I’m an idiot—god, Miles, we need to get you to a hospital.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t. They’ll—they’ll figure out who I am.”

Ganke grits his teeth. He hates that he feels relieved, that years later he still feels sick at the thought of hospitals. “Then we have to go to your mum. She’s a nurse, right?”

But Miles seems even more tense at that, head shaking harder. “No! No. I haven’t told her yet—she’ll freak, Ganke.”

Ganke can't believe what he's hearing. “Miles, you’re dying!”

“I can’t tell her, not like this. She’ll kill me.” 

“If you die in here, _I’m_ gonna kill you!” Ganke says, somewhat hysterically. There is a _lot_ of blood. 

Miles sighs, hissing a little as he shifts his position against the bunk. “Listen, I heal fast. Just need… your help to stop the bleeding. There’s a first-aid kit under my mattress.”

“_Jesus_, Miles.” Ganke breathes.

“Please.” There’s desperation in his voice.

Ganke grits his teeth. “Okay,” he says, giving in. “Okay. God, this is a terrible idea.”

Miles nods weakly, leaning his head back against the bunk. “Thanks, Ganke.”

Ganke racks his brain, thinking back to four years ago and midnight reading and coping mechanisms. “Okay,” he repeats. He looks back at Miles. Runs through a checklist in his head. Initial points of bleeding; upper left thigh, left ribs, upper right arm. Thigh is the highest priority. Shoulder looks dislocated, bruises on the face and who knows where else. Possible concussion, but considering that Miles could hold a conversation, he doesn’t think it’s life-threatening. He swears, again. Pushes his glasses up and tries not to freak out at the blood he sees on his hands.

“Keep the pressure on your thigh,” Ganke says, all-business, and then moves to find the kit.

The first aid kit is store-bought, but Ganke can see that Miles has hastily packed it with a bunch of other things probably swiped from his mom. Butterfly bandages, finger splints, a ton of antibiotics, and lots and lots of gauze. It’s not totally unsalvageable, though there isn’t any stitching equipment, which is frustrating. Ganke has to stop himself from giggling inappropriately at the Spidey-plast™ bandaids.

He grabs a clean water bottle and a bunch of their towels from the hanger, and then kneels down next to Miles. “I’m going to need to cut the suit off.” 

Miles grimaces, but nods his head. Ganke grabs some scissors and tears at the fabric, peeling all of it off slowly. What it reveals isn’t encouraging; there’s a bunch of mottled bruising and cuts all over Miles’ body. He can see Miles’ hands fidgeting restlessly on the ground in pain.

Ganke winces at the laceration on Miles’ thigh. “Yeah, that’s gonna need stitches.”

Miles shakes his head. “Can it last the night? I can grab some from Mom tomorrow.”

Ganke levels him with a look. “I don’t think you’re gonna be going anywhere tomorrow. Also don’t shake your head! I think you have a concussion. Man, how did you forget stitches?”

Miles groans. “I don’t know! Stitches freak me out. You know I hate needles.”

“Look, there’s no way you’re going anywhere like this tomorrow, so we’ll have to do without for now. Sorry, this is gonna sting,” he warns, and then pours the water and antiseptic over Miles’ leg, cleaning the wound as quickly as he can. Miles lets out a muffled shriek as his leg flares in pain. 

“Sorry—!,” Ganke says, muttering both apologies and swear words on repeat as he soaks up the blood and adds butterfly bandages to the cut. Miles has grabbed onto Ganke’s shirt and is hanging on for dear life. 

“Okay! I’m done! I’m sorry.” Ganke’s hands are shaking as he wraps up the wound with as much gauze as possible.

“It’s okay.” Miles’ grip on Ganke’s shirt loosens a little. He’s panting. “…Not your fault.”

Ganke pauses and says quietly, “It’s not yours either, you know.” Miles doesn’t look at him, but he nods. He sighs and turns his attention to Miles’ ribs. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

Miles takes a second to respond. “A little, yeah.”

Ganke feels tentatively at Miles’ chest, but stops when he flinches. Ganke lets out a shuddering breath. “Two broken ribs, I think. Those’ll have to heal naturally. I know it hurts, but make sure you take deep breaths.”

Miles gulps, but nods. “How do you know all this?”

“I… taught myself after Dad died,” Ganke says, carefully. An expression Ganke can’t read flashes across Miles’ face. Ganke looks away and moves to Miles’ arms. “I’m gonna need to reset your shoulder; it’s dislocated.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay.” Miles grits his teeth. “Do it now.”

He lets out a sharp hiss as Ganke steadies it and pops it back into place with a quick move.

Ganke frowns. “What were you going to do if I didn’t know all this?”

Miles starts to shrug, and then winces and stops when it hurts. “Dunno. Usually I just bandage stuff up and hope.”

“_Usually?_ How many times have you done this!?” Ganke moves to look at the bleeding on Miles’ upper arm. 

“Hey, it’s not normally this bad!”

“God, you are so lucky I binge-read university textbooks when I’m stressed,” Ganke mutters. The wound on Miles’ arm is bad, but he doesn’t think it needs stitches. He cleans it quick, running water and antiseptic over the cut and bruising. He feels a little dizzy thinking about Miles doing this for the past three weeks alone, and then a little like slapping himself in the face that Miles got away with it without Ganke realising this whole time. Hindsight really is 20/20. Ganke lifts Miles’ arm, wrapping the bandages around it firmly. 

As he clips the gauze, he asks Miles, “Almost done. You holding out okay?”

Miles nods, but his eyes are closed. Ganke pokes his cheek gently; Miles stirs, exhausted. Without opening his eyes, he says, “Yeah. ‘m sorry. Thanks, Ganke.”

Ganke sighs, hand stilling on the towel as he wipes away the rest of the blood from Miles’ wounds. “Hey, don’t apologise. I’m just glad I was here.” He gets up slowly. He doesn’t want to leave Miles, but the floor is covered in blood-soaked towels. They’re gonna need to invest in some high-strength carpet cleaner before any teachers find out. 

“Wait here a sec.” 

Ganke darts out of the room, avoiding the hall monitor as he makes a sneaky trip to the dorm’s bathroom. He rinses the blood from his hands; they shake under the running water. 

By the time he comes back, Miles has fallen asleep. Ganke doesn’t know if that’s bad or good, and he’s suddenly too exhausted to care. He dumps the new towels on the floor and half-heartedly lets them soak up the grime. Thank god they took this weekend to stay at school and study; Ganke doesn’t know what he’d do if they’d had class in the morning. He lifts Miles up carefully to put him on Ganke’s lower bunk. Miles is heavier than he expected, the responsibility of a whole city packed into such a skinny frame.

Ganke sits on the bed at Miles’ feet, leaning upright against the wall. He tries to stay awake to watch over him; it’s not the first time he’s pulled an all-nighter. But as he leans his head back against the wall, Ganke feels the adrenaline finally drain from his body, exhaustion sinking in to replace it.

When Ganke wakes up, the clock flashes a 10:03am. Miles is still asleep, and Ganke’s pressed up next to him, having fallen back onto the bed during the night. He pushes himself up, and pulls back at the covers to check Miles’ wounds. 

As he unwraps the blood-soaked bandages to replace them, he feels Miles stir gently.

“Morning,” Miles mumbles, sleepily, and it makes Ganke’s heart do flips in his chest. He thinks it might be the anxiety of having to dress his best friend’s wounds.

“Ouch,” Miles continues, as Ganke continues unwrapping.

Miles was right, though: he does heal fast. The bleeding’s almost gone; and Ganke’s surprised to find he didn’t need stitches after all, skin patching itself back together at an unbelievable rate.

“Have you really been hiding this the whole time? From everyone?” Ganke asks, exhausted already.

Miles nods, shrugging guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop doing that.”

“The shrugging or the apologising?” Miles says, smiling.

Ganke rolls his eyes. “Both.” 

He helps Miles to sit up on the bed, and then goes to grab more bandages and more antiseptic cream. He starts re-bandaging Miles’ wounds as gently as he can.

“I just mean,” Ganke starts again, “You didn’t have to hide this, you know?”

Miles hums. “I mean, I’m not completely alone. There’s somewhere I could go for help.”

“_Now_ you tell me?” Ganke says, looking up. 

“No, I—I couldn’t have gotten there earlier, it’s too far and not really safe but. Aunt May’s place has some supplies.”

“Aunt May?” Ganke says, “You mean May Parker? _The_ May Parker? You know her?”

“She took us in after the first dimensional earthquake, but we accidentally destroyed her house.”

“You _what_?”

Miles groans. “It’s complicated. I got a lotta stuff to catch you up on.”

“God,” Ganke says, massaging his temples. “You’re Spider-man. My roommate’s the new Spider-man.” 

“I’m sorr—” Miles starts, before he’s interrupted by Ganke’s knowing glare, “I mean, I just feel bad.”

“Are you kidding?” Ganke says then, throwing his hands up in the air, “My roommate’s the new Spider-man! I’ve been obsessed with Spider-man for like, my whole life. This is a dream come true, dude! I mean, except for the part where you bled out in our room.”

Miles snorts.

Ganke looks at Miles, really looks at him as he leans his head on the backboard, eyes closed and smiling gently. The early morning sunlight casts an orange glow on his face, and again Ganke thinks of that spark, brimming restlessly underneath Miles’ skin. 

And then Ganke groans. 

Miles looks at him, drowsiness still painted in his features. “What?”

“I asked you for your signature,” Ganke says, embarrassed.

Miles’ mouth quirks up. 

Ganke has his head in his hands. “I promised myself I’d use that backpack forever.”

“Hey, now you can get me to sign anything you want!”

“It was in _your_ _handwriting_,” Ganke continues, distraught._ “_I didn’t even realise!”

Ganke looks up. Miles is struggling to hold back laughter, and pushes him away with his good arm. “Stop making me laugh, I’m injured.”

Ganke just leans closer, mock-angry. “This whole time I was making a fool of myself, and you were laughing at me! Cruel, Morales.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I owe you,” Miles says, smiling. 

Ganke remembers something, and then a mischievous glint comes into his eye. “Yep,” he says, as he stands up to get something from the first-aid kit, “And in return you gotta wear these.”

Ganke holds out his fist, and Miles suspiciously holds his hand out. Four Spidey-Plast™ bandaids fall onto his hand.

Miles laughs. “Oh, no, not the Spidey-Plasts™!” He cries.

“Uh huh. And you gotta use them for the cuts on your face.”

Miles looks at them closer, and frowns. “It’s too bad that these are of Peter.”

“Hey, easy fix,” Ganke says, and then grabs a black sharpie and starts colouring them in. “There you go.”

Miles grins. “Fine. Help me get ‘em on.”

Ganke sits in front of Miles, peeling the little backings off of the plaster as he starts putting them on the various cuts Miles has on his forehead. Miles is warm underneath his hands.

“Hey.” Miles sighs, suddenly solemn, and Ganke can feel the breath on his arm, “Seriously, thanks for not like, running off and screaming when I crashed into your bedroom.”

“Dude, you’ve seen my comic collection. I wouldn’t’ve abandoned Spider-man even if he wasn’t my best friend,” Ganke says, grinning. He puts the last plaster across the bridge of Miles’ nose.

Miles stills at that, though, and it takes a minute for Ganke to realise it might be because he’d just called Miles his best friend after like, barely two weeks of talking to him. Ganke pulls his hands back from Miles’ face awkwardly.

But then Miles beams, and, Jesus, Ganke feels like he needs to shield himself from what he swears is a sudden outpour of light.

“Yeah,” Miles says, joy written in the lines of his smile, “of course not.”

Miles tells him the full story over lunch the next day, a bizarre tale of alternate dimensions and multiple Spider-people. Ganke had heard about the conspiracy theories online, but he’d never have given them any thought, until Miles confirms that not only are some of them true, but that most of it is even more crazy than any of them could’ve imagined.

Ganke, of course, demands to see Miles’ web-fluid immediately. Miles rolls his eyes but he pulls out Aunt May’s formula Ganke to see. It’s ingeniously simple, and Ganke mourns the fact that he can’t use any of this in his thesis without betraying Spider-man.

“Isn’t all this expensive?” Ganke asks, after a while. They’re surrounded by paper as Ganke jots down notes and prods at the mechanisms in Miles’ web-shooters.

Miles flops onto his back, arm falling dramatically over his eyes. “Ugh, yes, don’t remind me. I’m already running outta what Aunt May gave me!”

Ganke hums, smiles, and then taps two of the ingredients. “I mean, I know where the school labs store these.”

Miles peeks up at him from behind his arm. 

“But,” Ganke continues, “they don’t let you use it unless you have special permission and enough lab hours.” He turns to look at Miles smugly, “Which, coincidentally, I have, because of my scholarship and thesis research.”

Miles sits up. “No way.” 

“Yes way. But we need a way to sneak you in because I’m the only one allowed to be using them.”

“Dude.” Miles grins, waving his arm in front of Ganke as he makes it vanish from the forearm up. “Spider-man.”

Ganke giggles, and then curiosity gets the better of him as he reaches out and tries to touch the air where Miles’ missing hand should be. The sleeves of Miles’ shirt have disappeared with his hand too.

“Can you see your own arm when you do that?” Ganke asks. His hand brushes what he thinks are Miles’ fingers. 

“Not really? It’s shimmery sometimes.” They’re palm to palm now, and it’s so surreal to be able to feel Miles’ hand on his but not see it. “Like I can see the vague outline of it.”

“That’s so cool.” Ganke says. Miles’ palm is warm against his, and it sends tingles down Ganke’s arm and makes his heart race. Like a side effect of Miles’ venom blast; his bio-electricity affecting everything it touches.

Ganke pulls back and curls his hand into a fist. “So? Tonight?”

Miles laughs, and Ganke feels an invisible hand give him a bump. “You know it.”

It gets easier, then. Ganke’s still as worried as ever, but there’s two of them now, and when Miles patrols in the afternoon it’s with Ganke’s number in his phone and a promise to get back early. They spend any nights they can in the school’s lab, making web-fluid and messing around far more that necessary. Miles’ Spidey-sense doesn’t really work with teachers, so keeping Miles undiscovered mostly involves slapping hands over each other’s mouths whenever they get too loud, or leaving Ganke to be humiliated by pretending he talks to himself. One time, Ganke accidentally gets webbing all over the both of them and they have to struggle awkwardly to the dorm with Miles’ entire left arm stuck to Ganke’s shirt.

Ganke learns more in the next week than he has in the past month, and not just about crazy superpowers and the tensile strength of spider-webs. He learns that Miles loves to think on the ceiling, walking back and forth and scaring the bejeezus out of Ganke whenever he turns around and comes face to face with an upside-down human. He learns that Miles is jittery, flickering in and out of invisibility when he’s nervous; that when he’s over-excited sparks sometimes literally fly out of his fingers and light up his eyes. He doesn’t so much learn as he does confirm that both him and Miles are absolutely awful at lying, and trying to get Miles out of class often ends with one or both of them in detention.

Ganke learns that villains don’t pull their punches on kids.

He learns how to swatch concealer to cover up bruises, learns exactly how fast Spider-man can heal and exactly how stubborn Miles can be. Ganke has to all but wrestle Miles back into bed when he’s injured and still refusing to miss patrol. Miles sleeps in Ganke’s bunk more often than Ganke himself does these days, getting home too exhausted to climb up to his own.

Ganke wonders if Peter ever had a friend to confide in like Miles does in Ganke. He thinks about Mary Jane at the podium of a funeral and wonders, how did you do it? How did you stand next to a spark so bright and not burn up under the pressure of it? How did you continue once it was gone?

But then Ganke will remember how Miles will swing down the streets he knows Ganke takes on the way to school, just so he can sneak him a wave when no one’s looking. The way he’ll buy two hotdogs on the way back from patrol, and then swing the both of them up to the roof to eat and watch the view. The first time Miles had taken Ganke swinging with him, somewhere out of sight between buildings, and he’d lost his voice from shrieking so much. When Miles tells him the whole origin story with his powers and the pigeons and the torn comics, Ganke laughs himself sick.

He thinks about Miles’ smile and his wild, gesturing movements when he tells Ganke about patrol on the good days, when his excitement is infectious and the volume of their chatter gets so loud that their neighbours thump on the walls and yell at them to go to sleep. About the joy of a shared secret and barely held-back laughter and knowing glances in class.

Ganke thinks about Mary Jane, and he gets it. He gets it. This is the side of Spider-man no one else gets to see.

Miles shows Ganke his sketchbook, one day, pages filled with erratic shapes and bombastic colours that have Ganke starry-eyed. He’s aware of street art in the way most people in New York are, omnipresent on walls and subway tunnels, as tourist sites and the sharp smell of spray-paint. But it’s obvious, Ganke thinks, as he runs his fingers over the jagged lines and dripping ink, that it means a lot more to Miles than he could probably ever know.

There are repeating motifs, especially in the later pages, that Ganke can’t help but notice: turquoise ballet-shoes, cartoony caricatures, monochrome shading, spiderwebs. The last few weeks are especially loaded with art, and it rings familiar; Ganke thinks about how he kept himself busy to keep the feelings away.

And there are a few pages that Miles, with embarrassment, asks him to skip, and as curious as Ganke is, he does. 

(He pretends not to have seen the last one that leaves Miles bright red, a sketch made of flat bright colours and abstract shapes, and undeniably of Ganke. He doesn’t know why it makes his stomach so fluttery or why it leaves his cheeks warm.)

But it’s only when he reaches the final page that Ganke realises, exhaling slowly, why Miles has shown him. It’s a sketch for a mural, marked in orange and blue in a striking burst, with a sketched bust in earthy colours, and two brilliant bright letters framing it: AD.

_Uncle Aaron, Rest In Power._

“I was wondering if you wanted to come and see it,” Miles says, hands in his pocket, standing in front of Ganke but not quite looking him in the eye.

“Miles… this is amazing.”

“Thanks,” Miles says, smiling and biting his lip nervously. “Dad and I found a wall to throw it up on, out near the police department. I was gonna go visit it this weekend and I was wondering…”

Miles did take him up on his offer to talk, after all, albeit not in the way Ganke was expecting. But then again, he never really knows what to expect with Miles.

“Yeah,” Ganke grins, and he feels the warmth spread into his body, “of course.”

It’s a warm Saturday afternoon when they walk to the mural. Ganke can feel Miles buzzing with a nervous energy, and tries to distract him by asking him about his last few patrols.

Ganke’s kind of nervous too. He knows Miles is the one who invited him, but he feels like he’ll end up intruding on father-son bonding time. Feels stupidly unqualified, as if there’s a meter for how well-equipped you can be when dealing with super-villain related grief. And Ganke’s not even inexperienced with that.

They’re walking past the PDNY department when the commotion starts, and Miles straightens up suddenly. There are shouts coming from inside the building, and the sound of sirens and the revving of engines in the distance.

Miles looks at Ganke, apologetically, asking a silent question. The mural is just round the corner, he knows.

He sighs fondly, shoving Miles shoulder. “Go, dummy. The city needs you, and all that.”

Miles grins gratefully, and pulls them into a nearby alley. He hurriedly shrugs off his jacket and clothes, revealing the black and red suit underneath, and then chucks them to Ganke. “Meet at the mural?”

Ganke nods, catching the clothes clumsily, and then gestures at the suit. “Don’t you get really hot in all those layers?”

Miles makes a face. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” He adjusts the web-shooters on his wrists, and then pulls his mask down over his face. Ganke can see his own reflection in the shiny glass of its eyes.

“Alright, go kick some ass, and please don’t die. You _have_ to tell me all about it when you get back, okay?” Ganke says. It’s a strange routine to him now.

“Duh.” Miles laughs, and bounces on his feet. He turns, looking back at him one last time. “Thanks, Ganke.” 

And then Miles takes off running, leaping onto the wall and jumping off the edge. His webs hiss out and snap tight, and when he falls he flies, swinging through the air on wings of his own, vanishing over the side of the next building and into the sunlight.

Ganke looks after him for a few seconds, and something clenches tight and warm around his chest, makes his heart beat in his fingertips until he feels light as silk. He walks out slowly and heads towards the main street, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Yeah, Ganke doesn’t feel guilty for thinking it.

The new Spider-man is really cool.

**Author's Note:**

> FUN NOTES:  
\- the spider-man comic cover i described is based off of [this cover](https://www.twitter.com/jorgejimenezart/status/890624980098142208) of superman by jorge jimenez. it’s one of my absolute favourites :’)  
\- mr chamberlain is a character from the miles morales: spiderman book by jason reynolds! it’s written by a black author, and tackles a lot of the struggles of being an afrolatino kid in nyc. it’s very good. miles and ganke write poems! miles is terrible at dancing! yeah!  
\- the explanation about miles’ venom strike is pulled from the comics; whether it’s scientifically plausible at all is. extremely debatable lmfao.  
\- bombshell aka lori baumgartner is a villain from miles’ comics! her daughter lana becomes one of miles’ close friends. censoring the swears is just a reference to how comics do it  
\- the mysterio in miles’ universe is made out of [this weird blue glowing fire](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/spiderman/images/5/56/Mysterio_%28Earth-1610%29.png/revision/latest?cb=20121118193440) instead of the classic fishbowl head? plus he’s like, actually an android?? being controlled by main universe’s mysterio??? yeah. i love comics  
\- i had to read some of ultimate comics spiderman for this and peter’s hair is SO UGLY it’s actually hilarious. please look at [this terrible photo of peter at his own memorial.](https://www.twitter.com/kindlestuck/status/1176099282362847232?s=20) he’s DEAD and they still did him dirty like that
> 
> ANYWAY thank you all so much for reading!! 
> 
> COME YELL AT ME ABOUT SPIDERMANS ON MY [TWITTER](https://www.twitter.com/kindlestuck) OR [TUMBLR!](https://kindlespark.tumblr.com)


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